


When All is Darkest

by cywscross



Series: Tumblr Prompts 2015 [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Cutting, Depression, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>sociallyawkwardfangirl21 asked: Prompt: Steter forced to share a bed :D</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sociallyawkwardfangirl21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sociallyawkwardfangirl21/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad because you put a smiley face at the end, and it sort of gives the impression that you want something happy. Fluffy maybe. But this is far from happy. This is depressing. And it’s sort of preslash Steter instead of established Steter. _And_ it’s open-ended. It could definitely continue on for a chapter or two or three. Ugh, idk, I hope it’s good anyway.

“Strip.”

Stiles squawks, clutching at his soggy zip-up hoodie and backing up a step. “W- What?! No!”

Peter rolls his eyes, already shrugging out of his own waterlogged coat. “Stiles, you know as well as I do that you can’t stay in wet clothes if you don’t want hypothermia to set in. Now strip. I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself. Scout’s honour.”

“Y- You were never a b- boy scout,” Stiles accuses through chattering teeth, stubbornly wrapping his arms around himself. “And I’ll t- take my chances, thanks. I'm sure th- the others will get here s- soon, and Scott already knows t- to bring a change of clothes.”

Peter heaves a long-suffering sigh before pinning Stiles with a cool, steely look. “There’s no guarantee that they’ll get here anytime soon. Look outside, Stiles.” The windows rattle threateningly as the storm rages even harder. “Not even werewolves can travel through that without difficulty, if at all, and your lips are already turning blue. If you don’t want to freeze to death, the best thing to do right now is to share my body heat.” His lips curl into a sneer as he begins working off his jeans. “Don’t worry; I’ll hear them coming so you’ll have plenty of time to get away from me before they see anything even remotely incriminating.”

Stiles shivers in his clothes as Peter turns away to shed the rest of his clothes except his boxers.

It isn’t that he has a problem with touching Peter, Stiles wants to protest, although he can see why the werewolf would think that, seeing as how nobody in the Pack ever really touches him for fear of catching the zombie plague or creeper cooties or something.

But...

He glances down at his sleeves, dark with rainwater. Well, he can take off most of his clothes.

It’s a bit difficult to wrestle out of his drenched clothing, especially since he’s wearing so many layers, but he manages, stripping until he’s down to his slightly damp boxers and a single sodden long-sleeve.

Peter cocks an expectant eyebrow from where he’s sitting on the edge of the only bed in the room, blanket in one hand. He’s already laid out his clothes to dry as best as they can in a rundown cabin with no electricity or even a hearth.

“I’m not letting you into the bed if you don’t take that shirt off first,” Peter tells him evenly before smoothing out the blanket and arranging himself into a more comfortable position on the squeaky mattress.

Stiles grits his teeth. It has the positive side-effect of temporarily stopping them from clacking together. The rest of him is still shaking though.

For a long minute, Stiles debates refusing. There’s a ratty sofa in the corner; he could always curl up there. No blanket but the furniture itself is still cloth.

He actually takes a few steps towards it.

“Stiles.”

He glances at Peter. The man just looks tired now, and mildly incredulous over Stiles’ sheer obstinacy. He lifts a corner of the blanket. “Just take off the shirt and come to bed. You don’t even have to face me, okay?”

Stiles dithers some more, but hell, he’s freezing, and if he doesn't have to lie down facing Peter – plus there’s the blanket – then it should be easy enough to hide his scars, along with the newer cuts that are already scabbing over. It’s been a few weeks since he last picked up a blade, and nobody’s ever smelled the blood on him anyway even when the cuts were fresh. Or if they did smell it, they probably chalked it up to him tripping or getting banged up by the latest Big Bad again, and never looked further than that.

One of his hands – trembling – reaches up to shove some of his hair out of his eyes.

He’s really fucking cold.

With a sigh of defeat, he shuffles his way over to the bed, turning his back to peel off his last layer. It gets even colder as the air touches his clammy skin but he still has the presence of mind to keep the insides of his wrists out of sight, first with the soaked shirt, and then casually leaving them turned away from Peter’s shrewd gaze as he slides clumsily under the single blanket and wriggles down into something more horizontal and _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Peter is like a furnace compared to Stiles, how the fuck is that fair?

He tenses when an arm loops over him to tuck the blanket around him, but every one of his muscles are already locked as his body temperature fights to balance itself out, and he can’t even find it in himself to object when Peter wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him flush against the werewolf’s chest.

“W- Whatever happened to keeping your hands to yourself?” Stiles snarks, trying not to melt into the heat radiating from behind him.

“I had my fingers crossed,” Peter deadpans.

Stiles snuffles a snort before shuddering and – _screw it_ – nestles even further back into Peter. His eyelids are already drooping.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Peter murmurs in his ear.

For once, Stiles obeys without question.

-0-

Going to sleep was his first mistake. Quite possibly, listening to Peter at all in any capacity was a mistake in and of itself because most suggestions not related to life-or-death situations just magically take a turn for the worse when they go through Peter first.

Stiles likes being warm. He’s always disliked the cold, more than ever after the Nogitsune, so it’s only natural that he would migrate to the nearest source of heat even in his sleep. Especially in his sleep.

So it’s really no surprise when – eyes fluttering open – he finds himself practically plastered against Peter upon drifting out of the most restful, dreamless slumber he’s had since Beacon Hills became a Hellmouth to rival Sunnydale. His head is tucked into the curve of Peter’s neck, resting on his shoulder, one of his arms is draped over the werewolf’s torso, and their legs are tangled together.

“Mmph,” Stiles mumbles, brain still fuzzy with sleep as he stirs, vaguely aware of Peter’s own arm still holding him close.

He shifts, rolling onto his back and stretching languidly, squinting against the sunlight streaming in through the window across the room.

“Slept well?” Peter’s voice is pitched to a soft rumble, gravelly with sleep.

“Mm-hm,” Stiles yawns, bringing up a hand to rub at his eyes.

That’s his second mistake.

Within the span of a breath, Peter goes statue still.

Stiles’ brain is still rebooting so it takes him maybe one, two, three seconds before he fully registers that Peter has gone rigid against him, and then another couple seconds to realize why.

Stiles freezes from head to toe, all the warmth and contentment inside him fleeing like mice before a cat, and leaving him cold to his very core. Even his hand – with all the incriminating evidence – is still hovering over his eyes, as if every single one of his muscles has locked itself in place.

“Stiles-”

Like a kick to the rear, the single uttered name jolts Stiles into action once more, and in the blink of an eye, he’s thrown himself out of bed and as far away from Peter as physically possible. He staggers and almost trips over thin air before regaining his balance and whirling to face the werewolf still sprawled on the bed but now propped up with one elbow underneath him.

For a moment, they only stare at each other. Stiles isn’t certain what expression is splashed across his face but – when Peter finally does move – it makes the werewolf sit up with deliberate motions, slow and careful. His gaze never leaves Stiles.

It makes Stiles’ skin crawl.

Without a word, he snatches up the nearest article of clothing – one of his shirts – and scrambles to put it on. It’s icy and stiff to the touch but Stiles could care less right about now.

He instantly feels calmer once his wrists have been covered up, not quite like he’s teetering on the brink of a panic attack anymore. It doesn't really change anything – Peter already knows – but at least it gives him an illusion of safety.

He mentally snorts. Safety. There’s nothing _dangerous_ about people finding out, per se. It’s just... something he’s kept hidden since he was ten years old, and if word gets back to his father, the Sheriff would probably flip and haul Stiles to the nearest therapist post haste.

He knows what he’s doing isn’t normal, isn’t healthy. He knows all about suicide cases and whatnot, he’s a _cop’s kid_ after all, but it’s not like that for him. He doesn't have a death wish, doesn't _have_ to do it every day or even every few days like some sort of addict. It’s simply something he does on days when he feels like shit, when he’s tired and lonely and hurting from cuts and bruises, and Scott won’t pick up the phone, and the Pack throws out careless comments about how he’s human and weak and _stop getting in the way, Stiles_ even when he’s the one who finds the latest monster’s weakness and tells them about it in the first place.

Cutting himself is just a way for him to feel in control again, and he’s done it for years, even before he was thrown into all this supernatural bullshit. At least self-inflicted injuries are _his_ choice, and not because he was too pathetic to defend himself against Gerard or the Alpha Pack or the Nogitsune or anything else that’s ever taken a chunk out of him before, physically or figuratively.

But this is Peter, who shouldn't care less about Stiles’ wellbeing, so his secret should be safe enough. Unless the werewolf decides to tell someone just to make Stiles’ life difficult. Each is just as likely as the other.

“Stiles-” Peter starts again, low and confusingly soothing like he’s talking to a skittish animal.

Stiles _isn’t_ a skittish anything.

“It’s just something I do,” Stiles interjects harshly, avoiding Peter’s probing gaze. “It’s nothing.”

Peter remains silent for several seconds. Stiles darts around the room, struggling to yank on the rest of his clothes. He’s pretty sure one of his shirts is on backwards but what the hell.

He’s working on his jeans when Peter finally speaks again. “Been doing it long?”

The man’s tone of voice is nonchalant, indifferent. Stiles tells himself that he’s relieved. If Peter doesn't care, then he’s less likely to rat Stiles out.

“A while,” Stiles says shortly, hoping to discourage further questions.

“Thinking of stopping?”

Stiles’ shoulders hunch. And then he makes a conscious decision to un-hunch them. He doesn't answer.

“It’s none of your business,” He says instead, and he hates how defensive he sounds.

Peter smiles at him in a distinctly ominous manner. “No, I suppose not.”

It’s all he says, and then his head cants in that way that tells Stiles that there are people coming, probably the Pack since Peter doesn't look particularly concerned as he climbs out of bed.

Stiles heads for the door, eager to get home. He doesn't ask Peter to keep his secret; there's no point. Either Peter will or he won’t, and no amount of pleading or threatening on Stiles’ end will make him change his mind.

Besides, if nothing else, Stiles still has more dignity than that, and he’ll be damned if he lets Peter Hale of all people take it from him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next several weeks, nothing changes. Or not much anyway. As far as Stiles knows, Peter stays mum on what he saw. His dad remains oblivious, the Pack goes on with their lives.

But at the same time, Peter is suddenly _everywhere_. When Stiles is driving home after school, he catches a glimpse of Peter leaning against a street light near the school entrance. When he steps out to grab the mail and newspaper, he spots a flash of blue eyes from a copse of trees across the street. And when the Pack is off fighting the latest monster, leaving Stiles behind at the loft, Peter stays as well – he usually does because nobody trusts him to watch their back on the field – but these days, if Stiles goes to the kitchen, he follows, if Stiles returns to the living room, he does too, and if Stiles goes to the bathroom, Peter never fails to be a creep by waiting for Stiles to come out, commandeering a patch of wall in the hallway with a smirk on his face until Stiles is finished.

Seriously, does the guy not have a life?

It’s irritating and disturbing, and Stiles sometimes wants to scream at the man to stop whatever mind-fuckery he thinks he’s pulling, but in the end, Stiles doesn't say a word. On one hand, Peter could just be screwing with him by faking this stalkerish concern, in which case Stiles isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of letting him see that it’s working. On the other, if Peter really is worried about him – the chances of which are laughably low – then the best thing for Stiles to do is to let the werewolf spy on him to his heart’s delight, show him that Stiles does not cut himself on a regular, uninhibited basis, and that he can in fact stop at any time. After all, Stiles hasn't carved a single line into his skin in all the time that Peter’s started shadowing him. Stiles just has to keep that up, and the werewolf’s bound to give up sooner or later.

On hindsight, he may have given Peter Hale too little credit.

 

* * *

 

“Stiles, you were right there,” Scott persists as he and Derek help Liam onto the couch, with the others limping in after them. He isn’t healing as fast what with the traces of wolfsbane currently circulating through his system. “Couldn't you have called it?”

Stiles’ jaw flexes. “Well excuse me for having been a little preoccupied with stopping another hunter from blasting _all_ of us to kingdom come. I saw the arrow; it was aimed at his leg so I didn't waste time saying anything.” He flaps a hand at Liam’s injured leg in an exaggerated gesture. “He survived, as did the rest of us. I don’t see the problem here.”

“You were standing right next to me,” Liam sulks, face twisted into a grimace. “You could've warned me.”

Stiles gives him a patented you-are-denser-than-a-brick-wall face. “I was already running for that other hunter who _had a grenade_. It’s not my fault if your wolfy reflexes are defective, _runt_.”

“Stiles!” Scott barks, eyes flashing red.

Stiles’ eyebrows rise in unimpressed disbelief. He looks squarely back into those Alpha eyes, not even blinking until Scott squirms uncomfortably and puts them away again.

“Look, just-” Scott sighs, reaching out to draw more pain from Liam. “Let’s all be more careful next time.”

Stiles snorts derisively, loathes the note of reproach in Scott’s voice that he knows is directed at him. Without another glance back, he turns on his heel and storms out of the loft. He’s petty enough to slam the door on his way out.

On the drive back, Stiles almost has to pull over a few times as the pain in his side finally begins to kick in now that the adrenaline is wearing off. That fucking grenade would have dispersed wolfsbane in the air along with setting the entire clearing on fire. The humans might’ve been able to survive – if they were very, very lucky – but the wolves would've been done for if Stiles didn't tackle that hunter to the ground before the bastard could throw the mini-bomb.

As it is, the grenade went off anyway, triggering a much less devastating explosion, mostly because Stiles used both the hunter _and_ himself to smother the damn thing, resulting in the entire left side of his torso feeling like it’s been set on fire.

At least he’s better off than the hunter. That guy didn't have much of a body left in the aftermath. Serves him right.

Stiles exhales unsteadily as he pulls into the driveway. A lot of the others were pretty wounded today too, nothing that wouldn't heal with time, but the newest group of hunters were both competent and crazy so they managed to deal quite a bit of damage before the Pack managed to take them down. In the ensuing thank-god-we’re-all-alive moments, visible injuries were fussed over first, and Stiles – with only second-degree burns instead of broken bones or bloody gashes like most of the wolves – was quick to rifle through his jeep for a spare sweater. He didn’t need anyone trying to bandage him up and getting a lucky glimpse of his wrists in the process.

And contrary to what must be popular belief, Stiles doesn't actually hate Liam or anything. He just doesn't particularly like him either, or even care about him on a personal level, but the guy’s Pack, personally Bitten by Scott, so Stiles will look out for him too, and even if the others don’t remember, Stiles knows that this is the first fight Liam’s been in where he’s come out with blatant injuries that didn't heal right away. It’s only logical to let the Pack pamper him a bit.

But did Scott really need to blame Stiles for not warning Liam about that damn arrow? Stiles saw the trajectory out of his peripheral vision even as he rushed towards the other hunter with the grenade – he was one hundred percent certain that the thing wasn't going to do Liam any lasting damage.

None of the others spoke up in his defense either. Looks like Stiles was more of a liability than anything else once again.

By the time he stumbles upstairs into his bathroom, his anger’s deflated like a popped balloon, leaving behind nothing but an empty sort of exhaustion. Mechanically, he shucks off his sweaters and shirts, wincing whenever his movements aggravate his burns.

God they look gross. And they hurt like a bitch.

Still, perched on the toilet cover with his clothes – most of them torn and singed – scattered about on the ground, he feels too tired to get his ass in gear and start patching himself up. Honestly, he feels too tired to do much of anything.

His shoulders slump, and he tips forward to rest his head in his hands, ignoring the warning flares of agony racking his body. They feel like failure more than the triumph they should be. He helped save the Pack again; shouldn't that count for something?

He scrubs his hands over his face before opening his eyes. His gaze falls on the cabinet under the sink.

Before he’s really aware of it, Stiles already has the cabinet open and the razor blade typically hidden behind a few bottles of shampoo in hand.

A few cuts should be fine. The burns are barely bleeding, sluggishly oozing crimson more like, so it’s not like he’ll pass out from blood loss or anything.

He sets the metal against the inside of his left wrist, reassuring in its familiarity. He knows exactly how much force to use to break skin, how far to slice to draw thin lines of blood but not sever an artery. It’s easy to press down-

He almost jumps out of his skin when a hand enters his line of sight, clamps around his right wrist, and – with a deft squeeze that’s only hard enough to surprise him into relinquishing his grip on the blade – forces him to let go.

Stiles remains stunned for all of two seconds, and then he’s surging to his feet and rounding on the intruder, going from worn-out to pissed off in the space of a heartbeat, a snarl of unexpectedly wild rage twisting his features.

“What are you _doing_ here?!” Stiles all but yells, trying to twist his wrist out of Peter’s iron grip. “Why do you keep following me?! This is breaking and entering! Get the _fuck_ outta my hou-”

Stiles’ breath rushes out of him in a whoosh when Peter hauls him forward before shoving him up against one wall, blue eyes glowing cobalt as they skewer Stiles with an unyieldingly hard stare.

A low, hurt noise erupts from the back of Stiles’ throat as his torso screams with pain, and he automatically tries to fold in on himself. Surprisingly, Peter releases his grip on him, and with another mangled sob stuck in his throat, Stiles slides to the floor, gasping and blinking around the black dots invading his vision as he curls into a fetal position.

Peter’s hand is suddenly back on him, except it simply rests against the back of his neck this time, and a second later, Stiles goes limp as the pain begins to diminish.

“Isn't this enough?” Peter asks quietly from somewhere above him. “Don’t you get hurt enough without doing it deliberately too?”

Stiles tries to pull away. Peter doesn't let him.

For a long while, they stay like that, Stiles slumped on the floor, Peter kneeling beside him and draining the pain. Just as he’s starting to feel dopey with what amounts to a ton of pain meds, he hears a rustle of clothing, and then strong arms are scooping him up into the air, cradling him against a firm chest as he’s carried out of the bathroom.

“Stay on your back,” Peter tells him once Stiles finds himself lowered onto his bed.

He twitches when a cold wet cloth first touches his burns, but Peter is shockingly, painstakingly gentle as he tends to the blisters before covering them with gauze.

Stiles can’t remember the last time someone helped him with his injuries.

By the time Peter’s finished, Stiles can barely keep his eyes open, but he forces himself to watch as the werewolf cleans up the bathroom before dragging the desk chair over and taking a seat at Stiles’ bedside.

For a minute, Peter just scrutinizes him with solemn eyes. Stiles averts his own gaze. His wrists are beginning to itch. He wants-

Involuntarily, his attention flicks to the open door of the bathroom.

“You're not self-harming again.” Peter states it like it’s a fact.

And just like that, Stiles is wide awake once more. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the sting along his side. He glares. “Look, why do you even care? Just pretend you don’t know anything, and go back to creeping on everyone and being an overall dick. You didn't do anything weeks ago when you found out-”

“Let’s not pretend, Stiles,” Peter interrupts with a smile that would be pleasant if Stiles didn't catch a glimpse of fangs. “You know I've been following you; I haven’t exactly been what you’d call subtle.”

“So what?” Stiles scowls defiantly. “You haven’t told anyone, so obviously-”

“-I knew it would do more bad than good,” Peter finishes smoothly. His gaze flits briefly down to Stiles’ wrists. Stiles crosses his arms. “Betrayal of trust does not help depression, Stiles.”

“Okay, one, I'm not depressed,” Stiles hisses, glowering at the skeptical arch of Peter’s eyebrows. “And two, you can’t betray my trust if there isn’t any trust there to begin with.”

“You trusted me enough to risk getting into bed with me,” Peter points out, and under any other circumstances, Stiles would flail in embarrassment at that phrasing. “And whether you acknowledge the fact or not, a part of you _does_ want someone to know.”

Stiles scoffs loudly. “And why would I want that? Things were fine before you found out and started stalking me twenty-four/seven!”

“You’re hurting yourself,” For the first time, Peter’s voice gets a few decibels louder. “You’d really call that ‘fine’?”

“I had it under control!” Stiles snaps back. “It’s not like I was trying to kill myself every time I did it! It’s just something that keeps me grounded, alright? So there’s no need to interfere!”

“And if your hand slips one day?” Peter counters scathingly. “Or if Scott or one of the others says something even more carelessly cruel than usual?” Stiles flinches. “What then? What happens when you come home to an empty house after running around and getting hurt saving one of your friends, only to have them throw it back in your face like they did today, like they've done countless times before, and you end up deciding that you've had enough? _What then_ , Stiles?”

Stiles launches himself at the werewolf before he can think that action through rationally, furious enough to toss reason out the window. Peter just catches him by the wrists, and the sheer effortlessness of it only makes him even angrier.

What right does Peter have to butt in where he’s not welcome? What right ( _Why_ ) does he have to care when no one else has ever even noticed-

“I’ve been doing this for years!” Stiles shouts, trying to claw at Peter, and then he gives up and swings out a knee that catches the man in the ribs. Peter grunts at the impact but doesn't let go. “ _Years_! And everything was fine! And then you come along and think you know better, following me everywhere and breaking into my house and acting like you give a shit about me-”

“You think this is an act?” Peter demands with a sneer. “You think I’d waste time on you if-”

“If you think this is such a waste of time,” Stiles seethes. “Then _leave_ -”

Peter actually shakes him a bit, frustration colouring his expression. “You're not _listening_ -”

“Yes I am! And I don’t want an undead psychopath creeping on me anyway-”

“Well _someone_ needs to do it since your self-restraint clearly leaves a lot to be desired-”

“ _I’ve been doing this for years!_ ” Stiles practically screeches. “ _Seven years and no one’s ever_ -”

_-cared enough to look._

His voice cracks and dies in his throat, and to his eternal humiliation, his vision is suddenly blurry with tears. He ducks his head, sagging with defeat as the fight drains out of him all at once, leaving him feeling hollowed out and dead all over again.

Peter sighs, long and weary, and then his grip on Stiles goes slack before the man is suddenly bundling him into a hug. Stiles doesn't even have it in himself to complain, much less ask what the fuck the werewolf thinks he’s doing.

“You're pretty broken inside, aren’t you?” Peter remarks, one hand carding fingers through Stiles’ hair, the other resting on the small of his back.

“You're one to talk,” Stiles retorts half-heartedly, forehead smooshed against Peter’s collarbone.

“Touché,” Peter concedes blandly. “But at least I haven’t resorted to hurting myself.”

Stiles’ snort is muffled but still audible. “Fuck you, you hypocrite. You taunted Derek all the time back when he was still an Alpha, goading him until he threw you into the nearest wall or beat the shit outta you. You may be a werewolf but you can’t convince me that didn't hurt. In more ways than one.”

Peter’s hand stills in his hair. Stiles wonders if he’s going to get his throat ripped out for that observation. He thinks he should probably care more about that than he actually does right now.

The fingers resume their combing. Peter doesn't deny it. “Well, at least mine’s past tense.”

“What is this, a competition?” Stiles gripes. “Besides, you only stopped because even you aren’t gonna stoop to pretending you're weaker than Derek when he’s a Beta, or worse, weaker than _Scott_ even when he’s an Alpha, and Scott’s not in the habit of punching people in the face anyway no matter how much they piss him off. He’s not actually in the habit of doling out violence at all when he can help it.”

“And what a pity,” Peter mutters, a hint of bitter disgust tainting his voice. “Can’t even finish off his enemies when they need finishing off.”

Stiles only shrugs. “Scott... is a good person. Or at least he tries to be as he muddles through all this supernatural crap, which means, you know, no killing. Thou shalt not kill and all that jazz.”

“And be killed in return,” Peter scoffs, but he doesn't bother continuing the line of conversation. Scott will always be a target of contempt for Peter. No use getting into an argument about it, especially now.

They fall silent for a while, and Stiles is surprised to find himself lulled into something like contentment as he allows Peter to bear his weight.

“...I don’t actually want to die,” Stiles eventually confesses. Peter doesn't even twitch. Maybe he was waiting Stiles out to begin with. “It’s just- sometimes... I don’t really care if I do. And this-” He lifts his right wrist, scratching distractedly at the scars. Peter catches his left hand and draws it away. “It helps me... focus. On wanting to. To live. Sort of.”

Peter brushes a thumb along the scars. Stiles shudders but doesn't pull away.

“What started it?” The werewolf asks, voice carefully neutral.

Stiles has never told anyone, not a single soul, not ever, so he doesn't know what makes him blurt it out now, especially when it’s _Peter_ on the receiving end.

“...My mom died,” He says, so quietly that Peter only hears because he’s a werewolf. And then Stiles shakes his head, fingers curling into the fabric of Peter’s v-neck. “No, that’s not- ...She wasn’t- She wasn't right in the head near the end. She had frontotemporal dementia, and it made her- well, bottom line, she eventually went crazy. She didn't know what she was saying, not really, but...”

Stiles stares blindly at the soft white of Peter’s shirt. “The things she said... weren’t really very- nice. They weren’t- I mean, the last thing she ever said to me... was that she wished I had never been born.”

The moment the words are out, Stiles rears back, landing back on the bed with a thump when Peter lets him go, still watching him with solemn blue eyes.

“It’s _stupid_ , isn’t it?” Stiles waves a hand through the air in an erratic motion. “She wasn't in her right mind, I _knew_ that. The doctors warned us, my dad repeated it to me, I _knew_ she wasn't all there anymore, that she wasn't herself, that she was angry and upset and sad about everything most of the time, but-”

“But she was still your mother,” Peter concludes, and there’s an odd inflection in his voice that Stiles can’t identify.

“It wasn't just that one time either,” Stiles admits, turning away to look out the window. The moon is half-hidden behind a veil of clouds. “She usually only lost it whenever my dad wasn't around so, you know, I should've been used to handling her mood swings on my own.”

“Nobody gets used to that sort of thing, Stiles,” Peter cuts in firmly. “Nobody _should._ She may have been sick but she was still wrong to say those things.”

Stiles shrugs weakly. He knows. He just doesn't quite believe.

“And then you started...?” Peter prompts, leaning forward and reaching out to cradle one of Stiles’ wrists again. Stiles lets him. Barely even cringes this time when Peter manoeuvres his arm so that the scars are in plain sight.

“Not right away,” Stiles sighs. “It’s more like my mom’s death triggered a whole bunch of other stuff that piled up into one giant clusterfuck that I didn't know how to fix. My dad – after Mom died – he was a mess. For an entire year afterwards, he was almost always working – late hours, night shifts, extra patrols, you name it – and when he did come home, all he’d do was sit in the living room and drink, and some days, he couldn't bear to look at me – couldn't even bear to have me in the same room – because I looked too much like my mom.”

Stiles bites down hard on his bottom lip. “I hated that year. It was- I’d lost Mom, and at the rate he was going, I thought I was gonna lose Dad too, so I tried to be... supportive. Showed him he could depend on me. I tried to take over for Mom.” He splutters out a humourless laugh. “It was a fucking disaster at first. I didn't know how to do much of anything. I burnt dinner, I put too much detergent in the washing machine, it took two _days_ for me to vacuum the entire house when my mom used to be able to do it in a couple hours, if that. There was even that one time when my dad threw a bottle of whiskey-”

He pauses, blinking when he catches sight of a muscle jumping in Peter’s jaw, and the way the werewolf’s eyes flash fire for a moment.

“It was... just the one time,” Stiles assures uncertainly. “And it was at a wall, not me or anything.” The look in Peter’s eyes doesn't get any less damning but he doesn't say anything either, only offering a measured nod for Stiles to continue.

“Uh, well, I swept up the glass but I missed a piece, and I ended up stepping on it, go figure,” Stiles makes a face. “I used bleach to get the blood out of the carpet but I think I used too much. Should've gone with detergent and cold water. It was really just a few drops. The carpet’s never been the same since.

“I got better though,” Stiles tacks on, pride lilting his voice for a split second. “At everything. I’m a kickass cook now.”

He stalls again, gaze now riveted to where Peter’s fingers are tracing the white lines marring Stiles’ skin.

“But, um,” Stiles swallows, reflexively shivering at the werewolf’s feather-light touch. “It was tough, and... the first time this happened-” He wriggles his hand. “-it wasn't even on purpose. I was in the kitchen, and I was carrying a glass of water, but then I tripped and dropped it, and I accidentally cut my wrist on one of the shards when I went down.” It didn't even scar, that time. “And at that point, I was- I was really stressed. I wasn't sleeping half as much as I should've been, I hadn't had time to get my prescription refilled, and my dad forgot I think, so my ADHD was randomly acting up, and that day overall was particularly bad – Harris was being even more of a dick than usual and gave me detention for clicking my pencil too loudly, Jackson knocked my lunch tray to the ground and I didn't bring enough money to buy something else so I was pretty hungry, Melissa couldn't drive me home because I had detention and she had work after dropping Scott off so I had to walk home in the rain, and I hadn't seen my dad in four days because he was sleeping down at the station again. It was just a lot of little stupid things heaped together, and then I dropped the stupid fucking glass on top of everything else, and-”

He stops to take a breath before exhaling on an agitated huff. “It felt good,” He whispers, running a tired hand over his face before pressing the heel of his palm against one eye, keeping both closed. “I mean, it hurt, but with everything else going on back then, it was- it just helped me cope, so I... kept doing it. It was something I could control, and it was a distraction from- from _life_ , and it was-”

“An outlet,” Peter offers, and Stiles nods mutely. He jerks in surprise when a warm hand cups his jaw, and his eyes fly open to meet Peter’s.

“And now?” The werewolf enquires, regarding him with hawk-like intensity.

Stiles shrugs helplessly. Unconsciously, his head tilts further into Peter’s hand. “It... still helps. I don’t do it all the time, not as much as I used to.” He glances down. “I still have it under control, you know. I'm not gonna kill myself. My dad still needs me. So.”

Peter’s fingers constrict around his wrist while his other hand slides forward to curl around the back of Stiles’ neck in an almost possessive grip.

“That’s not good enough,” Peter says flatly, and his eyes burn with something Stiles can’t identify. “This has to stop.”

Stiles bristles and opens his mouth to protest, but the hand wrapped around the nape of his neck tightens in warning before he can utter a single word.

“It doesn't matter whether or not you think you can control this,” Peter continues forcefully, holding Stiles’ gaze. “The fact that you're doing it at all, that you get that urge, means that you can’t.”

Stiles presses his lips together, hands wrinkling his bedspread. Didn't Peter hear anything he just said? Doesn't he understand?

“It makes me feel better,” Stiles tries again.

“It’s a dangerously detrimental habit that you have to quit before you take it too far,” Peter counters ruthlessly.

“But it helps-”

“It really doesn't.”

“It’s not like I'm _suicidal_ -”

“I beg to differ-”

“I _need_ it!” Stiles shouts at last, and then closes his mouth with a click. He stares wide-eyed at Peter, and the sheer amount of _understanding_ he finds there is like a knife to the gut.

“I don’t need- That’s not what I meant-” He falters. His voice is pathetically tiny.

“When you feel you need to,” Peter says in a voice that brooks no argument. “You come to me. Alright? I’ll find a way to distract you.”

Stiles gapes at him just a little. “What- But- I don’t think-”

“You come to me,” Peter repeats sternly. “And we’ll figure it out. Like now – do you still feel like you want to cut yourself?”

Stiles’ ears burn, and he starts to shake his head, but then Peter gives him a hard look, and he finds himself nodding instead, wrists prickling.

Peter nods once, and then – before Stiles can blink – the werewolf has scooped him up again, carefully, gently, like Stiles is something precious.

The next half hour goes by in a bizarre blur that makes Stiles wonder if he’s actually hallucinating even when he’s back in bed again.

Peter gives him a bath first, sponge and all, and Stiles really should've been weirded out by the entire thing because hello, _naked_ , and he does flail a little at the beginning, but Peter doesn't make any suggestive passes at him, and the water is warm, and Stiles is still exhausted, and Peter washes his hair like he’s giving the world’s best massage, and his burns don’t hurt because Peter takes the pain away and places new gauze over them afterwards, and overall, it feels... nice to be taken care of for once. Weird, but nice.

All of it lulls Stiles into a drowsy stupor, and by the time Peter wrangles him into fresh pajamas before tucking him back into bed again, all Stiles can really focus on is blinking sleepily up at his self-appointed... _whatever_ as the man strips out of his jeans, leaving him in his boxers and v-neck, before promptly scooting in under the blankets next to Stiles without so much as a by-your-leave.

“This’s kinda creepy, y’know,” Stiles slurs out even as he lets Peter drape an arm over his waist and curl around him in an echo of their night in that rundown cabin where all of this first started.

Peter hums noncommittally in response, drawing Stiles even closer so that it only feels natural for Stiles to bury his nose in the crook of Peter’s neck and relax against the living furnace wrapped around him.

“What are you thinking right now?” Peter murmurs against his temple, but Stiles is already toppling into the realm of sleep, and after the day he’s had, he’s too tired and too comfortable to even think of a reply before he’s out like a light.

And just like that night in the cabin, Stiles finds himself free of nightmares, safe and warm in Peter’s arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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